Mom’s in back, paddling out. She’s a person, not nearly as efficient as us surf dogs. She paddles lying down, with hands, not paws. Giggling and making all those funny sounds. Words so cute, but I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.

And right over there, down the wave, were two of my very best buds – a bulldog and a golden retriever. Both standing up with me, at the very same time, at the very same beach on their very own boards. And it was magic. There's no greater gift in life than sharing this moment with friends.

I’d never had real friends before, never really belonged.

Rescue dogs roll that way.

It was an incredibly long ride – ocean curls just kept coming up behind and chasing me, changing me. Waves pushing a little bit left, up toward where the San Diego River empties into the ocean, and the sea wall between OB and Mission Beach.

Then the surf changed and pushed back to the right – toward the OB pier. Ocean was playin’ with me. Teasing and testing me. Could I stay on when she tried to throw me off? I’d been thrown off before so many times. Mostly on land, with humans.

And with a light step, that wasn’t normally my way, and that basset hound dogged determination, we’d made it to this place and the wave was there – the test – and I rode it with everything I had. Everything I’d learned. From the rescue dog ride of life.

And Mom had been there, helping, every step of the way. Together, we were one.

Normally when Howdy ran away, his mom frantically followed, trying to bring him back home.

But this time, she’d let him go – in a good way.

Into the wave, on his own, riding the wave like one of the big boyz.

She’d paddled him out through the break, picked out the wave, paddled him into it, then slipped off behind and gave the board a huge shove at the critical moment, to launch him into the curl.

She got him his wave, his moment - and then she knew enough to let him go it alone. How’d she know that?

Seemed like hours and days passed - surfing suspended all time, all rational thought and all other feelings. That one-with-nature moment lasted forever.

That same wave that threatened to drown you, gave you pride and hope and peace and joy - the thrill of a lifetime – all, in under a minute.

It makes you want to race right back out after wave #1, for one more who-knows-what’s-gonna-happen-next Dog Beach ride of life.

It’s been said that the average surf ride is about ten seconds, but this ride lasted way longer.

The board with the dog took its time heading in – heading home.

All the way from outside the surf zone, back through breaking waves toward the beach, through indigo, to blue water and white water, to ankle biters, to bubbles, to shore. The fin of the board dragged up in sand. Howdy stepped off in ankle deep water.

Top dog style.

He smiled a big, toothy grin. Maybe it was there the whole time, for the whole ride. Who knows.

He felt like a king. King of the beach.

And together as one breed, dog and man - surf dogs all - we say or howl, bark

Howdy could see their mouths hanging open on shore - the sense that something amazing had happened.

He felt like, for once in his life, he got noticed. He was a throwaway dog in a former life. Many lifetimes ago.

They were clapping, laughing, running towards him.

And the surf dog shook it all off – the time and the tides and cold water and heavy thoughts he used to drag around - with a full-body side-swiper back-n-forth salt- water-in-flight slow-motion of the ocean notion.

He trotted off down the beach.

Dog Beach - his home beach. Cross roads of all breeds and all creeds. Dogs and their people and surfers and seniors and families with kids and lawn chairs and floating umbrellas and Frisbees and lots of dog-butt sniffing, too. Tattoo viewing. Yes, he knew what tats were, even though a dog shouldn’t.

His new mom finally swam in from the ocean, walking back up the beach to join him. She was panting, exhausted, dog-tired. He’d surfed; she’d swam. She’d paddled the two of them together out past the break, then hung back when he took off on board.

Now she was laughing and running toward him. She scooped him up and held him upside down, on his back, cradling him in her arms like a tiny puppy. Even though he was a big, manly surf dog, he didn’t try to wriggle out, or break free. Like old Howdy would have.

Because this was their most secret, sacred moment - her giving him the gift and him, stepping up. Believing.

He was big and small, young and old, man and dog, crazy and chillin,’ happy-sad, all at the same time.

He'd never needed anyone in his whole life before that moment.

He just let her coo and kiss him.

He totally deserved it!

Right then and there - he was King of Dog Beach.

And then hoards of people came running up, laughing and chatting and cheering them on.

“Whoa- what a good dog!”

"How’d he learn to do that?"

"How long did it take to teach him?"

"His wetsuit says Howdy – is that his name?"

His dog friends that rode the same wave he did, were just swimming in. Sopping wet dogs. Dragging, drowny dogs. They’d fallen off that beast of a wave. The one he rode all the way in.

Big Rich, the overweight boxer with a big, loud bark and this whole. I’m the Big Man body language. Even though he wasn't.

And Hookipa, the hot-babe golden retriever with a white, bright smile. And a big fancy pedigree. Born and bred for water, not like land-hunting low-rider basset hounds.

Not like him – not like Howdy.

He was so not your typical water dog.

With a low-man physique – short basset hound legs.

A long-board basset hound back.

And extra-wide UGG-boot feet. Toes splayed out in the sand. On a surfboard.

Grip it and rip it.

So maybe basset hounds were really bred for surfing after all – not just for hunting.

Maybe the whole low-rider-surf-dog-custom-basset-hound-specialty- package wasn’t just an accident.

And somehow this dog - adopted, rejected, returned to the pound, the 3-time rescue mutt, least likely to succeed - had shown everyone else, all water dogs and would-be surfers and gnarly surf dudes and beach breeds, how to get ‘er done. How surf dogs roll.

A stray, a mongrel, a runaway, an “incorrigible pet,” according to those judgey people he used to know.

A basset, a born “sinker" – like short boards that sink into water.

But here, now, a “floater” - a long boarder, riding with style and pizazz.

And with a whole lot of genetically engineered basset hound pride and stubbornness.

Which, when you think about it, is the most important secret to surfing waves of any kind.

He was maybe three years old, still in his first year of surfing. After riding out a couple of lifetimes already, all former failures.

Based on a true story by surf basset Howdy Doody,

with surf dog mom Barb Ayers

Ah, the smell of the ocean. You sense her before you see her. Rhythmic breaths, rhythmic breeze, rhythmic tides. Back and forth, drawing you in. Irresistible.

Warm sand. Bare feet. Bare paws. Bare back. A sea of umbrellas and beach chairs, towels and tattoos. I smell a warm meatball sandwich by a dude in the sand.

I'm a surf dog. Surf basset Howdy Doody, more specifically. I’m rolling up on all fours at my home turf, Dog Beach, in OB - Ocean Beach, San Diego. The first leash-free beach in the US. Doggie wonderland.

Dogs and dog people from all over the place hang here - and together we say….

Oh yesssssss!

Baroooooooo!

Dogs dart around in circles, this way and that - chasing freedom and Frisbees and dog butts and fuzzy yellow-green balls.

Blue skies and ocean smelling breeze and all those brilliant rays of light and life. A smile grows wide from deep inside.

I did my best basset-squinty-eye-cool-dude-look-west-surf-check pose.

I’m thinking…. I’m Joe Cool in a wetsuit for the beach boy strut with a surfboard.

I’m way more into the feeling, than the look, I swear. It's how I roll, it’s what surfers do.

Seagulls swirl, "caw-caw-cawing" overhead.

The pelican patrol escorts you out to sea, sky surfing in straight rows of bird V- formations, like military airplanes. Yes, I'm a dog and I know what airplanes are. You live in OB under the airport flight path and get what that’s all about.

A little airplane buzzed overhead, pulling a long banner with human words on it. There’s a beach full of people and dogs – plenty here to see whatever that message is. But it’s just blah, blah, blah, to me.

A skinny dude slides around on a skim board in ankle deep water like he’s surf dog Laird Hamilton. I bet Laird got his start that way.

Laughing kids splash around without wetsuits, as if ocean isn’t cold - we all know it really is. They bounce up out of water as waves roll by, so their faces don’t get wet.

I'm thinking.... Tourists! Spray in the face is one of the greatest gifts of surf dog life.

That Oh crap moment that makes you want to run way, or turn around.

Like all the other stuff you’d rather not face head on.

And then I'm all… no biggie man, it’s nuthin’. Easy breezy surf dog style. Day in the life!

Stay ahead of the surf break. Get into the lineup. Dive under the wave, or paddle hard, right at her, and fly over the top. Timing is everything, each moment of surfing. The hardest part is getting out, past breaking waves, against gravity and the supernatural force of nature and all that bad stuff that ever happened in your life.

On the backside, you slow-mo paddle into position and wait for something magic to happen.

Pick one out – find your way – take that sweet ride – make friends with waves. And people.

Waves are good. Waves are like friends – they help you find balance.

Be bold. Be flexible. Be brave.

My new Mom’s laughing right behind me on board. She paddled us both out here – I don’t mind the help, really. She adopted me from the pound about a year ago and here we are, facing the ups and downs of life together.

Here comes another wave. Hurry – it's fast moving – right now!

Mom’s all paddle-paddle-paddle-hard! Facing off against the wave. With me in front! And we’re charging that big, bad wave woman, as the girl in back paddled and pushed.

We went there together, Mom and I.

And at the very last moment, we skyed it – flew over the peak - bouncing down on the backside. To safety.

That wild wave must have been three times my height – that’s what surfers call triple head high. And we rose up to meet it like it was nothing at all.

My own head-high is filled with emotion. It’s hard to describe.

Who’s your Daddy?! Your big bad basset man…

Crap- that was a super close one. We were almost too late.

Another wave is coming, right after. No time to think. They come in sets, one after another after another, like most of our challenges do.

Getting your butt out there without drowning is the hardest part of surfing.

No, maybe it's the just showing up part.

The I’m not running away again this time. The I’m gonna stay and try.

Compared to that…. being chained to a wood pit in the mountains when you’re a puppy, left out as coyote bait in the back woods… or being adopted and rejected by two moms in two years… standing on a board and riding a wave is super easy.

Or a wave, like a cat, all pouncy and stealth-like. That closes-out on you without warning. Dang cats, always pushing innocent doggies around.

“OK, we’re almost there – hang on for that cowabunga, dude experience,” she says, all soaking wet, smiley-voiced.

I'd never say this out loud but... I might not be up for this without my momma on board.

This time we flew over the wave – hairs flapping in the breeze, over the top of the last breaking wave. Almost home free.

Soaring… Superman!!!

Break on through to the other side....

Salty taste. We rode that one out and stuck the landing together, neither of us falling off or floating off toward Baja or some other ocean. We made it - outside! Past the impact zone!

So, mid air, I nonchalantly shake it all off. Slow-mo water droplets in flight.

No biggee. Typical day in the green room. It’s what surf dogs do.

Mom bubbled all those funny little human words behind me like something important just happened.

I’m thinking, Geesh, that was close.

You fling everything you have, to get over that mountain - momentum and hope and good intentions carrying you to the other side.

Long, flowing ribbons of water, like drool - streaming behind, like that overhead airplane banner flapping in the breeze, carrying words dogs can't read. At Dog Beach, where we don't talk. We do.

We nailed it!

Almost lost it. But not. Smiling inside.

There was no better place to be, drawn to a life of adventure and thrill and running away from the old ones you were.

Finding your way against the ups and downs of life. Against the odds.

The very essence of surfing.

If it were easy, everybody’d do it.

Quick! Turn around, face the shore – another wave is coming up behind us. Get into surf rider position.

Mom’s all, “paddle, paddle, paddle – we can get this one!”

Here’s a nice big swell, building up… hurry, quick… swivel around, look up, check the lineup, point just right. Feet in position - not too far forward, not riding back. Step a little left; whoops, I mean a little right.

Wait for it…. that perfect, effortless moment, suspended in time.

Lifted up by the wave – by life - mid air, sailing, flying.

Surf is UP and you rise up with her.

Surfing at last. And time stands still.

Wooo HOOOOOO, what a thrill.

Footwork – stay flexible. Stay with her as wave changes.

Hang loose. Hang Ten. I mean Twenty.

Howdy hangs 20 behind a ski boat with his mom when waves aren't around on the Colorado River. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org

Step forward a little - your weights' a little too far back, wave will sneak right out from under you.

Too far forward and you pearl - tumble and fumble and bumble underwater, body buried, rip tide dragging, threatening to drown you. Frantic, you’re flailing all around toward the light. You need air so bad you suck in salt water.

That sucks. Is that what they mean by that?

Wipeout. We call it pearling - surfers do. I know that’s weird.

Be patient, Zen-like. Don’t fight it.

Your drowned-rat brains bounce back up from the undertow at last - for your great big gulp of clear blue sky.

Shhhh – don't tell anyone that just happened.

Been there, done that - dragged down, wiped out - on the water. And off.

But that wasn’t now - that was a memory. Every wave, every ride, every make-or-break moment - that fear comes back, from deep inside.

Ah, this one looks perfect. Just the right one. This one could really work out.

And this wave, this woman, she picked me.

And in this moment, he rose up from the one he had been. So bad, so many times, a rogue runaway rescue mutt.

Barb n Dude surfing the Loews Surf Dog contest. DogDiary.org

And it lifted him up – she did – the wave; his mom; and they rose up together.

And he stood up, and he stood tall. And he moved just a little, to stay in the sweet spot. And he found it – for the first time in all of his life.

And he rode it – the ups and the downs, like it was nuthin’ at all.

Because he’d had a lot of experience as a third-time's-a-charm rescue dog.

Howdy Doody, a runaway rescue dog finds himself through surfing - becomes Chair Dog of Dog Beach in San Diego - and "Windsurfing's Top Dog." His surf dog legacy lives on at Dog Beach, through the Surf Dog Diaries and 4 generations of surfing rescue dogs.